


Invisible Touch

by ElvenSemi



Series: Inspiration [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Flirting, HoBag!Lavellan, Mixed POV, fade stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSemi/pseuds/ElvenSemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look through the eyes of the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This installment of my Shameless and Pointless Fluff brought to you by this ridiculous playlist: http://i57.tinypic.com/15gbinr.png
> 
> This is my first time flirting (pun intended) with multiple PoVs. I hope it doesn't suck balls! :D Please enjoy this chapter about Lavellan being a shameless ho bag. <3 Next time: more tomfoolery, probably!

Lavellan had a talent. It was a talent she’d never gotten the opportunity to learn about, back at her Clan, and it was one she was still largely unaware of. She had a gift of destroying the souls of the men around her, utterly unintentionally. 

She couldn't possibly notice, Blackwall thought grudgingly to himself as he watched her literally _climbing_ Iron Bull, that lucky Qunari bastard. She’d been all over _him_ like that not one day earlier, and he was barely suppressing jealousy. Ah, who was he kidding; he wasn't suppressing it at all. It burned in him as he watched her climb up his back, using his horns as grips. She was so agile… So flexible. And charismatic enough to convince the giant Qunari to let her use him as a climbing pole, yanking on sensitive horns, giggling something about learning to dance. 

Her charisma, Blackwall thought glumly, could not go understated. He was well aware that her flirtations were largely intended to be harmless. She flirted with EVERYONE, and in nearly equal parts. Including the women. That had been amusing, when it was Cassandra, but the sight of her and Josephine walking down the steps of Haven, hand in hand, talking about the Baron of so-and-so and what he did with whomever, giggling like schoolgirls, left him with thoughts nearly as distracting as when she turned her agonizing attentions towards him, running light fingers through his beard, which she always seemed fascinated by. She had once confessed to him that elven men grew no such facial hair, or, indeed, much body hair. It explained her fascination, but not necessarily why her first reaction to fascination was to touch. Nor did it explain why he let her, despite the comical, judging look he received from Varric. 

-

She was a monster; she had to be. A Desire demon, come to life to taunt him. So it seemed to Cullen, who felt like he hadn’t gotten a night’s sleep since the Inquisition had been founded. Not a week after she climbed out of that Fade rift, she had started her work on him. What gave her the right to run her fingers through his hair? Any other woman, surely he would have swatted them away, or at least had the good judgment to run. But the way she curled against his back, giggling into his ear, froze him solid. 

She was inappropriate. There was no question about that. She oozed inappropriateness. The questions that woman asked him! It would be enough to bring a lesser men to his knees. But Cullen wasn’t quite sure he wasn’t a lesser man. It seemed as though he could sense her coming. One minute, he’d be focusing on his soldiers, showing them how to deflect a line of fire, when a chill would travel down his spine. Sure enough, there she would be, offering to let him practice with some real fire, to show the boys how it was done. Show the boys… The way she talked about them, she knew she drove of them crazy almost as much as she did him. As Varric was gleeful to point out, suddenly a lot of the hidden smut amongst the ranks involved wild, promiscuous elven women. 

Surely no man had followed Andraste for this reason? Cullen certainly hoped not… it seemed like an unreliable way to lead. And yet, he was following her. And no matter how much sleep she was costing him, he couldn’t imagine himself doing anything else. 

-

She was a torment. Could she really have just suggested bathing in a stream with a straight face? Or was this some kind of Dalish thing? Blackwall tried to take his cues from Solas, but that man never reacted to anything she did. He was made of stone; some of the things Lavellan did to try and get a reaction out of him would have had all the blood leaving Blackwall’s head. So it was impossible to know if she was being flirtatious, or if she just really didn’t want to sleep while caked in blood. Either was entirely possible. 

Blackwall had assumed they would be bathing separately, or that Lavellan would at least bathe alone, but she steadfastly refused. 

“What if a bear ambushes me while I bathe, nude and defenseless? This is the Hinterlands. It is positively lousy with bears.” 

That foolish woman knew more offensive magic than anyone in the Inquisition. Blackwall had once seen her wrap her hands around the neck of a despair demon and immolate it in hellish fire. She was the least defenseless of them all, particularly when nude. If Vivienne had been here, she would have put an end to this nonsense. 

That was probably why Lavellan never traveled with Vivienne. 

How he found himself clad himself only in a loincloth in an ice cold river, surrounded by a damp, hirsuit dwarf, an elf that seemed completely content to merely clean himself as if this were an everyday occurrence, and a woman that was not even trying to keep herself covered was certainly one for the journal. 

-

Cullen always thought he would be relieved when Lavellan gathered up a party and went on an outing. Finally, some peace and quiet! An opportunity to get things accomplished without constantly wondering if Lavellan would find a way to swing on the Chantry chandelier. But he could have no peace. He found himself thinking about her, nonsensically. He wondered about her often. He had even asked Josephine to please research Dalish custom, to try and figure out the enigma that was the Herald of Andraste. 

Surely no messenger of Andraste should be so… handsy? But perhaps that was Dalish culture. She was young, after all, and had spent her entire life with the Clan. She had commented once that she had never seen so many shemlen in one place, only to have Solas inform her that humans didn’t particularly like that word. 

She had looked confused. To her, it was simply the word one used for humans.

That was part of the problem. She seemed so innocent, in turns, and then so… so wicked! She asked him to show her the basics of wielding a sword, all seriousness and determination. The strength of arms that could hold her whole body weight helped her lift a sword built for a human man, though she had to use both hands to wield it, so small was she. Caught up in the teaching, Cullen wrapped his hands around hers, showed her how to grasp it correctly. 

“Your hands are so strong, Cullen.” A smirk danced across her lips, and suddenly he was an embarrassed teenage boy again, flustered. Wicked. And yet it was clear she honestly wanted to learn what it was to hold a sword the way he did. Innocent. 

She would be the death of him. 

-

“Solas, I’m going to be completely honest with you.” 

“Oh dear.” 

“If a naked elven woman had jumped on me like that, I would not have been as calm or collected as you.” 

“I will choose to take that as a compliment, Blackwall.” 

“Are you two talking about me?” It was Lavellan, who had finally been convinced to put some clothing on. Solas had done all the convincing; Varric had been all too delighted by the entire situation, and Blackwall absolutely did not have the willpower required to maintain eye contact long enough. She came out from behind a tree, squeezing the water out of her dark hair. 

“Stories of the wild, loose Dalish women,” Solas quipped before Blackwall had a chance to make his own excuse. 

“Oh, yes, extremely loose,” Lavellan said, her laughter light, like a tinkering bell. Oh Maker, he was comparing her laughter to bells now. He was well and truly done. “You see Blackwall, that’s truly why he’s so stoic,” she sniggered, her eyes twinkling. “So used to wanton elves of the night. It’s all background to him now.” 

Blackwall could almost believe it. He wished he could be as unaffected by the youthful elf as Solas seemed to be. 

-

The girl was an absolute delight. Varric couldn’t help himself but egg her on. He hadn’t realized the horrific weapon he would unleash upon the world when he had first explained the concept of teasing and flirtation to a confused elf, half his age. It seemed no sooner than he’d shown her, she’d taken to it running, the student surpassing the master and, in the process, sowing seeds of havoc into the lives of everyone around her. 

There was only one person in the whole of the Inquisition safe from her coy smile and long eyelashes, and that was Leliana, the only person left in the world that the Herald was scared of, it seemed. The lass even would flirt with Vivienne and Sera, and Varric knew for a fact she was no fan of either. Vivienne was a target, because the older woman was a master of subtle socialization, and no matter how much Lavellan broadcasted her dislike of The Game, it was clear she had a thirst to learn how to play it. Vivienne could shut Lavellan down masterfully, and Lavellan seemed to be taking notes. And as for Sera, well, flirting and murder were the only two things the two elven girls could do together without winding up at each other’s throats. One time, Cassandra and Iron Bull had to physically pull the two apart in the bar, one snide comment from one or the other of them sending the other over the edge. Varric hadn’t heard the lecture Lavellan got from Solas the next morning, but he had seen the older elf standing over her, finger in the air, face firm. She was looking down, arms behind her back, the tip of her foot digging a hole into the dirt. By that evening, the two elven women were together in the courtyard, Lavellan having somehow seduced Sera into teaching her how to string a bow. 

She was a tornado, and if she swept through the world the way she swept through the Inquisition, nothing would be left the same. 

-

They’d been in a fight. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He had no sooner learned that she had been on the receiving end of a holy smite from a Templar Knight-Captain than she had thrown hurt feelings and sore pride in his face like boiling water. She had reminded him of things he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of. Things done out of necessity, sometimes done out of fear. 

When she had run off, they had all three thought the worst. Leliana and Cassandra had rushed into a panic arranging to search for the Herald, Cullen had just been numb. Then, not an hour later, he’d received word she had been found… By Solas, of course, perhaps the only one among them who could actually succeed at reigning her in. And then she was gone again, before he could even decide what to do. 

She’d been gone all day. He was at the war table, attempting to get something resembling work done, when he heard a familiar voice. 

“Cullen?” 

Maker, it was her. He looked up from the war table, not sure what to expect. 

She didn’t have her normal, mischievous expression on. She looked serious, as a matter of fact. 

“I wanted to apologize,” she stammered in rapid staccato. “What I said to you before… it was out of line.” 

Not what he’d been expecting at all. 

“No, Herald, it’s fine, I-“

“It’s not fine!” she exclaimed, then bit her lip. Her foot shuffled against the stone. Barefoot. A sure sign she was feeling insecure, since she was trying to get used to boots. “I said it in the heat of the moment, and I… I never wanted the whole, mage/Templar thing to be a problem with us. And you never made it one. I’m the one who made it an issue, and I’m sorry.” 

Despite his better judgment, he laid a hand on her shoulder. Maker, he was always surprised to find how slight of frame she really was. “I understand, Herald. You had just been gravely injured, and I can’t imagine smiting is a pleasant sensation.” 

A smile brightened her anxious face, and his heart soared. “Thank you, Cullen. I mean it. You didn’t have to be this gracious, and… I appreciate it.” 

“Did Solas put you up to this?” He wasn’t sure where it had come from. Normally he was the last person to tease… is that what it was? Or a bit of jealousy? It was Solas she had been off with all day, but of all of the people who might lust after the young Herald, Solas was the one with whom Cullen was confident she was absolutely safe. 

Her burning cheeks betrayed that the elder elf might not be as safe around her, however. “Well… I knew I had to apologize, as soon as I said it. But I’d be lying if I claimed Solas didn’t… encourage me.” 

“You have a good friend in him,” Cullen said, then paused. “I hope you can have a good friend in me, too.” 

-

“Boss, are you still awake?” Iron Bull asked quietly, slipping out of his tent to squint at the shape by the dimming fire. 

She clearly was, because she went from squatting to bolt upright so fast that Bull thought her knees might come off. He saw why as she turned, her face as guilty as a child caught with their hand in a candy jar. Solas was in his bedroll, sleeping by the fire instead of inside a tent, as he often did. 

“I-Iron Bull! Hi!” she wavered, her voice a full octave too high. 

“Were… were you watching him _sleep_?” 

“Whaaaat, noooo,” she chuckled nervously, eyes darting back towards Solas, who slept like a rock. “I was… observing his… Fade… walking… Stuff. Uh. …It was a mage thing. Did you need something?” 

“Er… I wanted to ask you something. But if you’re busy with… ‘mage stuff’, it can wait.” 

“I was… finished. Anyway.” She studied the smirk on Iron Bull’s face. “…What do I have to give you to ensure you never mention this to anyone?” 

“I’m not sure you can afford to buy me off.” 

“If bribery doesn’t work, I can try threats.” 

Iron Bull laughed. “A little thing like you? Adorable, maybe. Intimidating, no.” 

“How does spending the next two weeks patrolling the Storm Coast with Vivienne sound?”

The Iron Bull held his hands up in surrender, chuckling. “Your secret’s safe with me. My lips are sealed.” 

The tiny woman let out a long breath of relief. “Thanks, Bull. What did you need?” 

“No, never mind that, this is more amusing. Solas, huh? I thought you had it in for Cullen.” 

“You’re worse than Varric,” Lavellan muttered darkly. “It’s not like… what you’re thinking. It’s…different. I’ve gotten some bad news, recently, about my Keeper.” She sat down by the fire, and Iron Bull folded himself down next to her. The way she folded her legs to her chest, wrapped her arms around them… She looked tiny, without the wall of brash confidence she normally projected. 

“He was… not the man I thought. It has me reconsidering a few of my life choices.” Her eyes skipped back towards Solas. “There aren’t any Dalish in the Inquisition, Bull. It’s just me. And the Dalish are all I ever knew until I skipped into that Conclave. Now my life is rifts and Templars, rogue mages and a shemlen Chantry breathing down my life. Solas is my hahren… My life line. You all support me so much. But some nights… it catches up with me, a little, who I was three months ago, and I-“ Her eyes were tearing up. 

“Hey, hey, boss, it’s okay,” Iron Bull cooed, wrapping her up in a heavy arm. “You’re doing a great job. It’s fine to need some time just to breathe.” 

She attempted to take his advice, choking in a stuttering breath. Then she hiccupped, and Iron Bull couldn’t help but smirk. Whether she was an explosion of energy, a force of will, or a frightened child with a world of responsibility, she was still her own brand of charming. No wonder half the boys in the Inquisition had it bad for her. 

“Don’t worry, boss. We’re here for you. All of us.” 

-

Solas laid awake by the steadily dimming campfire. He hadn’t been asleep for a while now, which was perhaps a little dishonest of him. Lavellan had returned to her tent; she would be asleep shortly, and he should be in the Fade to greet her. She was still skittish there, after spending so long caged up away from it. She had met a small spirit of hope a few nights back, and had clearly been nervous despite her bravado. Leaving her alone was not the wisest choice, even if it was the easiest. He had not repaired her just to leave her flailing and panicked in the Fade. 

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, forcing himself back asleep. 

He found her sleeping mind effortlessly, and was pleased to find she was not curled up as she normally was when left in her dreams alone, but was actively exploring. She turned to him with a grin. “Hahren, I found something!” Spirits shimmered into life around her, painting a scene of wooden stands, bright lights, and crowds of humans. She was finding history. Not history so far off as he enjoyed, but progress was progress. 

“Wonderful, da’len,” he praised, and she glowed as bright as the festival lights. He looked around, examining their surroundings. He did not have to examine long. All around him, spirits mimicked couples holding hands, peddlers of sweet candy, and what for all intents and purposes appeared to be a stand where one could purchase kisses. Clearly, she had stumbled upon a fertility festival. 

“Isn’t it amazing?” Lavellan cooed, as Solas pondered if her skills were enough to have allowed her to do this on purpose. It was the sort of thing she would do. “Look at that giant pole! They’ve tied ribbons to it, instead of leaves. I wonder what it’s for?” She giggled. “It’s slightly… phallic, isn’t it?” 

“I would love to be surprised that the first memory you found in the fade is one of romance, da’len, but the ability escapes me,” Solas said dryly. Ignoring his wit, she grabbed him by the hand, dragging him through the memories of lovers past. Pointing at stalls, giggling, gasping, and cajoling as if she walked through the festival in truth, not just in memory. She played lover with him, holding him by the hand and dragging him about, delighting in finding the hidden nooks where spirits played at the memories of passion. 

The pole, as it turned out, was used in the metaphorical climax of the celebration. Humans danced around it in broad circles, growing tighter together as the ribbons wound shorter. The result at the end was a brightly colored pole and a lot of flushed, giggling faces, including that of Lavellan, who had run around the pole with the spirits, keeping pace as if she could wrap a ribbon around it herself. Still, it was the most relaxed he had seen her in the Fade. She even conversed briefly with a spirit of love before skipping back over to where Solas was resting on the grass, watching her antics with bemusement. She flopped down next to him and sprawled across his lap, arching her back: an act of affection he could allow only because he had the kind of control her other male friends lacked. She gazed up at him, grinning. 

“Thank you for humoring me, hahren. I’ve had a marvelous time.” 

“I can tell,” Solas replied, smiling despite himself. “I’m glad you’re growing more comfortable in the Fade.” 

“I appreciate your patience with me, Solas,” she said, her face slightly more serious. “It can’t be any fun, spending every night babysitting me.” 

“On the contrary, I am enjoying myself immensely. It’s not every day I get to see the Fade through fresh eyes. Your innocence draws people to you, da’len. I confess to being no different.” 

The Fade around them took on a rosy hue, allowing Solas to have no illusions about the effect his words had on her. Flushing delightfully, she sat up off his lap. For a single, perverted instant, he wanted to drag her back down. He pushed the thought away. 

“Innocence? If I thought for a second you were a liar, Solas, I would accuse you of being a poor one. Vivienne says people like me for… quite the opposite reason.” 

Solas waved his hand through the air, as if brushing the thought away. “Ignore her, da’len. Simple flirtation would keep no one interested for long. Perhaps that is the way you first catch attention, but people remain with you because they believe in you. If they thought you were false, they would not care the way they do.” 

“I… appreciate you saying that, hahren.” She leaned then, against his shoulder, and slowly faded away into the waking world. 

He stayed for a few moments longer, regaining his composure. She impressed him, certainly. She was the youngest of them all, and yet he found her making courageous decision after courageous decision, often under pressure and in an instant. More than once, her clever mind for strategy had saved the life of one of her companions in a tricky battle. Her power over the Fade grew every day, and with each step, she seemed more and more vibrant. It was a small wonder he found his eyes drew towards her during the day and night alike. She was an enigma, wiser than her elders, surely wiser than any Dalish had right to be. 

She caught people’s eye with her audacious personality, charm, and wit. She kept them because, as Sera had put it… she glowed.


	2. Blackwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan has that effect on people. In this chapter, she has that effect on Blackwall. 
> 
> Shameless goofballery. I regret nothing.

“I can drink you under the table, old man,” the young elf was slurring. “I have… I have _magical elf metabolism._ ” 

“You weigh eighty pounds wet. Where are you even storing this much alcohol?” Blackwall said with a laugh, not caring that he was slurring nearly as much. 

“Magical. Elf. Metabolism,” Lavellan said firmly, leaning a little too far to the right. Sera pushed her back upright. 

“Get it together, Inky, I’ve got money on this.” 

“I will make you a rich, rich woman, Sera,” Lavellan announced loudly. “This beardo doesn’t stand a chance.” 

“Beardo?” Blackwell would have been hurt if it wasn’t so completely hilarious. He'd never seen the Inquisitor this drunk. Half of the bar was just watching her, and Sera was running a small gambling ring on how much the Inquisitor could handle. He’d already lost his money, having bet she’d give up after the sixth mug of Chasind Sack Mead. She was on nine. So was he, since this whole thing started by her swaggering into the bar and challenging him to a drinking contest. 

He hadn’t been too interested, since nothing good could come out of the Inquisitor getting plastered in front of a few dozen of her men, but she’d wagered a day of servitude, and he just couldn’t pass it up. He wouldn’t do anything _too_ untoward, of course, but his room above the barn was terribly dirty, and having the Inquisitor clean it would not only be convenient, but entertainment, as well. 

All he needed to do was keep drinking. It was harder than he’d thought it would be, since the tiny elf, who seemed half his body weight, apparently was in possession of a hollow leg. 

“You’ve got no chance,” Lavellan was slurring, her grin wicked. Was it any wonder why he’d fallen for her? At this rate, she could have drunk a dwarf under the table. “I’ve been _practicin’._ When me ‘n’ Iron Bull drink, we drink dragon piss! Only somewhat figuratively, I think. It burns like you’d think dragon piss would.” 

“Have you been training, Inquisitor?” Blackwall said with a laugh. “If you wanted me to serve you that badly, you could have just asked.” 

Lavellan snorted. “No fun in that!” She leaned backwards, and shouted towards the alarmed bard. “Hey! Bard lady! You take requests?” 

“Well, um, you _are_ the Inquisior…” 

“Play Sera Was Never! Tha’s my favorite.” 

“Oh, lord…” muttered Sera. 

“Aw, you love it,” Lavellan giggled, swinging an arm around the blonde elf. “You’re the lady who protests too much. The elf who cried Fen’Harel.” 

“I have no rule against punchin’ drunkards, Inky.” 

“You wouldn’t hit me!” Lavellan gasped, looking taken aback. “I’m too cute!” She collapsed into a fit of giggles. Blackwall thought he had it in the bag, until she came back up, a wicked glint in her eye. “I’ve finished my mug, Blackwall. Drink. I’m ready for the next one.” 

Maybe there was something to elven metabolism. He’d have to ask Solas. He chugged down the last few swallows of mead, gasping as he slammed his mug down onto the table. “Alright, elf. Next round!” 

-

Sera nudged Blackwall with a foot, producing from him only a snort and a vague sort a flail. 

“Well I’ll be damned, inky,” she said, impressed despite herself. “You actually knocked him out.” 

“The secret is peeing a lot,” the Inquisitor said, drunk, but not as drunk as she’d seemed fifteen minutes prior. She’d been having them all on, Sera suspected, acting drunker than she was to get Blackwall to drink more than he could handle. Sera’s lips were sealed however, since she’d walked off with quite a large pot due to the Inquisitor’s trickery. 

“You didn’t use some kinda evil magic?” Sera asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“If I did, Sera, I would never tell you.” Sera didn’t like that grin Lavellan was wearing. She didn’t like it when the Inquisitor was scary, firstly because she didn’t like being scared, and secondly because Lavellan had a really great ass and that grin made her think things she didn’t want to be thinking about a scary Dalish mage. She didn’t even like elves, not really, not like that. Not elfy elves, and the Inquisitor was the only slightly less elfy than Solas, blast him. 

“Alright, enough of that, creepy. He’s unconscious. He’s safe in his barn. Now what?” 

“Now, I do what I’ve been waiting to do all night.” 

Sera choked as Lavellan sat down on the unconscious man’s chest, straddling him. “What the ‘ell are you…” Her question answered itself as Lavellan pulled a comb out of Maker knows where. “Are you…” 

“You can help me make sure Blackwall wakes up with a braided beard, or you can stand there gawping, Sera. Your call.” 

-

Blackwall woke up regretting every decision he'd ever made that caused his life to come to that moment. Oh Maker, he had a hangover to shake the ages. With a groan, he stumbled to his feet. His face hurt. And his beard was weirdly clumpy. He stumbled over to the trough that passed for his bathroom, glared into the half broken mirror he’d hung over it. 

His beard… was braided. Were those fucking FLOWERS? Tiny fucking flowers? 

Memories came back in an unpleasant rush. That damned elf, she’d challenged him to a drinking game, and he’d… he’d LOST. The evening was a haze, but a braided beard with flowers was definitely her handiwork. He pooled water into his hands, intending to rinse and unbraid himself, but to his horror, found that the braids were stiff and sticking as if they’d been glued into place. Then he saw the open tin. 

McNannan’s Best Horse Oil. 

It was for keeping a horse’s mane in place during a show. 

It was waterproof. 

Maker, no. 

-

Solas ran his hands across his brow, watching as Blackwall attempted to look dignified as he strode through the keep, hair and beard in beautiful elven braids, complete with tiny daisies. Their Inquisitor had clearly been up to no good last night. This is what happened when she was given an evening off, it seemed. 

“Pssssst,” came a whisper from behind him. It was Lavellan, squatting on top of his desk, knocking papers onto the ground. She was dressed in the kind of flowing gown that reminded him of what elves were before the Dalish. “Is he gone?” 

“What did you do, da’len?” 

The younger elf frowned. He knew well she disliked him calling her that, but she was now, of all times, behaving very much like a da’len. 

“Nothing _bad_. Actually, it turned out funnier than I thought. Dennet could have told him how to get the stuff out, but Dennet left early this morning to pick up more horses for the Inquisition.” 

“How on earth did you do that without waking him up?” Solas asked, curious despite the fact he knew he should be scolding. It was a childish prank, but it was a quite elaborate one. 

“I got him really, really drunk. I won a bet and a bit of coin while I was at it. Absolutely worth the headache.” 

Solas leaned onto his hand. He was getting a bit of a headache himself. She had this effect. If she wasn’t kept absolutely busy at all times, she would invent new kinds of trouble to get into. “Lethanna,” he began, taking a deep breath. 

“Nooo, don’t lecture me, hahren!” Lavellan whined with a grin. “It’s harmless, I promise. I’ll go help him get it off, so don’t be mad at me!” She flipped off of his desk with an elaborate handstand, clearly showing off, and just as clearly not caring that she was in a dress, and that her stockings didn’t go up THAT high, giving him a rather dramatic view of the way Mythal’s vallaslin wrapped around her thighs. He adverted his eyes quickly, which gave her the chance to scurry away, unlectured. 

She may be the savior of mankind, but she would also likely be the death of them all. 

-

“I still think you used magic,” Blackwall grumbled. 

“Then next time, ask Dorian to be the mediator,” Lavellan said with a shrug. “Now hold still. You’re going to need a shower after this. You smell like someone shat in a distillery.” 

“Baths in the winter are bad for health.” 

“That’s some Fereldan nonsense and you know it. Try saying that to Vivienne, see how far you get. You’re lucky I’m taking this out. You’re mine for the day, I could have paraded you around, flowers and all.” 

Her wicked grin made him shudder. He wasn’t going to underestimate her again, that was certain. He knew she was no innocent little angel, but he kept making mistakes along that line. Cullen was right, she was more akin to a demon. 

“Why aren’t you?” he asked, warily. She might have something worse in store. 

The girl pouted, showing off soft lips. He was suddenly aware that they were alone in her bedroom. 

“Solas. He saw you marching across the hold, and he was going to scold me.” 

Ah. Solas. Jealousy twinged in his heart. That damn lucky elf was always at the center of her affections, and he didn’t even seem to notice it. It was likely the older elf thought of her in a more mentorly way, or maybe there was some cultural elven thing going on that he didn’t understand. All he knew was that if Lavellan threw herself at him the way he saw her do to Solas, he wouldn’t be keeping her at arm’s length. 

Thinking of it that way made him feel like something of a dirty old man, actually. Solas seemed to think that Lavellan was too young, and Blackwall suspected he was older than Solas. 

Oh Maker, he _was_ a pervert, wasn’t he? She was what, twenty? 

“So, do you need anything heavy lifted?” 

“That would be a waste of your particular talents.” 

That little smirk on her lips… He was doomed. 

“I’ve had Josephine put together an outfit…”

He was BEYOND doomed. 

-

“Inquisitor.” Dorian paused, looking up and down. “…I know I’ll regret asking, but is there a reason why Blackwall is in formal wear, and is it even tangentially related to the reason why you’re sitting on his shoulders?” 

“I lost a bet,” Blackwall said darkly. “Don’t let her challenge you to a drinking contest, ever.”

“Iron Bull says I’m hollow,” Lavellan said wickedly. “Blackwall’s my manservant for the day. I decided I didn’t feel like walking.” 

Dorian shook his head, unable to keep from grinning. “You’re a terrible person, Lethanna.” 

“I am! I keep telling people, but they never believe me.” 

“Dorian, I found that book you were –“ 

Dorian found it interesting to note the way the shit-eating grin the Inquisitor was wearing dropped quickly into dread. She slid quickly off Blackwall’s shoulders, brushing herself off. Was she blushing? The whole of the Inquisition thought she and Blackwall were courting (of course, she had him dolled up and carrying her around like a princess), but this… 

“Thank you, Solas,” Dorian said gracefully, stepping around the flustered elven girl. 

The elf was eyeing Blackwall and the embarrassed looking Lavellan much in the same way as Dorian had, one eyebrow quirked. 

“What’s this, then?” 

“She won a bet,” Blackwall said, scowling. 

“I see.” 

The two words seemed to speak volumes. Vivienne would have killed for the kind of disapproving presence Solas seemed to have right then. Even Dorian was feeling a bit like a disobedient child, just being in the same room. 

Lavellan cleared her throat, and straightened her shoulders. “We bet that he would be my servant for a day, but I don’t actually know what someone does with a servant, so Josephine took the opportunity to teach me about Orlesian formal wear.” She gestured down at the dress and stockings she was wearing, as if it was an example. 

Dorian was impressed by the bald-faced lie. It was well delivered. He made a mental note not to play Wicked Grace against her. 

“I’m _sure_ that Blackwall has more important things to be doing,” Solas said darkly. “And on the subject of bets, I seem to recall that you still owe me four hours of staff practice.” 

“You said I could do that in bits!” Lavellan protested. 

“I changed my mind.” 

“Really, Solas, it’s alright,” Blackwall said. “She’s being a good sport about it, and it was a bet.” 

“Thanks, Blackwall,” Lavellan said with a sigh. “But I think I’m better off doing what he wants. I was being silly, anyway. Thanks for playing with me.” She stood up on tiptoes to give him a chaste peck on the cheek. 

The turn of phrase was such a childish one that it clearly startled both men. Dorian suspected that a lot of people had trouble remembering their Inquisitor’s age. 

As she shuffled off with Solas, Blackwall let out a long sigh and sank into a nearby chair. “That damn elf.” 

Dorian grinned. “Enjoying yourself, were you? What of your pride, man?” 

Blackwall glared at him. “My pride can take one for the team. She was sitting on my shoulders in a _dress,_ mage.” 

-

“Again.” 

“But hahren, I’m getting all sticky. And I’m tired!” 

“You should have thought of that before agreeing to this.” 

“But… four HOURS…” 

Leliana and Josephine were kneeling at the door, ears pressed to the wood. 

“…Should we go in?” 

“I tried looking down from above, but they’re not in the middle of the room.” 

“Ladies?” 

Both of them stumbled up, attempting to look dignified. Varric looked between them, arms crossing. “Okay, what-“ 

“Harder, with feeling!” Solas’ firm voice echoed through the closed door. 

“But I’m so sore! Solas, you’re awful…” 

Varric coughed on spluttering laughter. “Oh, Maker, that answers that.” 

“Did I say you could stop, da’len?” 

“Alright, ladies, I think we all know that this is way more innocent than it sounds,” Varric said, with a grin. “But I’m still going to write it all down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who do you guys want me to do next? Tell me in the comments: your every wish is my command.


End file.
